Wyatt fell sideways onto the workbench. The Glock barked into the ceiling as his wrist snapped back.
The second man was meaty and fast. A forearm slammed across Wyatt’s throat, trying to pin his weapon arm. Wyatt rotated with instead of against it.
He jammed the muzzle into the man’s ribs and fired. The round thudded into body armor. The man grunted but didn’t fall.
He grabbed hold of Wyatt’s broken hand and crushed it. Pain cracked through him like voltage—bright and absolute as his attacker smashed the Glock out of his grip.
The Glock hit concrete and skidded, spinning under the Volvo.
No time.
The meaty man drove a knee toward Wyatt’s spine. Wyatt rolled, trapped the other’s arm, and used the momentum to slam him into the workbench.
Bone cracked.
Akilov’s man roared but came back?—
Wyatt pivoted inside the strike and drove his elbow into his throat.
Once.
Twice.
The third collapsed it.
A gurgle. The man dropped.
The exterior door groaned. Freezing air flooded the garage.
Akilov and Jen were gone.
His Glock was under the car.
Wyatt dropped, ripped the dead man’s pistol free, press-checked the chamber—round seated—and yanked a spare magazine from the chest rig. He tucked it into his back pocket and came up running.
He burst out into the night.
Snow glare bleached the world silver and black.
Akilov was fifteen feet ahead, dragging Jen toward a mud-crusted SUV. Even now she fought him, her hands raking his wrists.
“Stop.” Wyatt didn’t shout it. He fired it.
Akilov staggered sideways, using Jen as moving cover. The round punched through his jacket, clipped his arm, and spun him. Snow kicked up around him, powder spotted red. Akilov didn’t drop.
Wyatt adjusted and fired again.
Akilov shoved Jen down hard and returned fire.
The shot split the air past Wyatt’s ear.
He moved laterally, boots slipping on crusted ice, breath cutting sharp in his throat, his thigh threatening to lock under the sudden change of direction.
He fired again?—
Click.
Empty.
